


City Of Lights, City Of Bones.

by YourLoyalBlogger



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:31:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourLoyalBlogger/pseuds/YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Johnlock Valentine's Day Challenge.</p><p>For xconsultingcriminal, based on their prompt.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Johnlock Valentine's Day Challenge.
> 
> For xconsultingcriminal, based on their prompt.

The case had seemed straightforward enough. They had the perfect suspect. They had ironclad evidence against him. And the man was still in London and seemingly unaware that the Yard knew he was guilty. Which is why when they went to arrest him, they were surprised to find he'd skipped the country. It had turned out he'd known the police were after him, he had a person on the inside. That was to say, his brother was a janitor.

To Sherlock this was further evidence of the Yard's incompetence. Did people no longer do background checks these days? But what was done, was done and it was up to the Yard's finest to track down the killer and bring him to justice. Discreetly and undercover. So of course Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were on the case.

To Paris.

Should have been obvious. Dufort had been born in London, but his parents were both french and he'd travelled many times in his youth.

 _Stupid, ignorant, pathetic,_  Sherlock had grumbled. Affectionate terms of course, for the dear old Yard.

But a trip to Paris, undercover does sound like fun, thought John. Not that they would have any time to see much of the sights in the City of Love. Nor would Sherlock even go for that sort of thing.

He wasn't a traditional romantic. Not by a long shot.

* * *

Usually if someone was to go undercover to catch a criminal, they would wear a disguise of some description. Not the same clothes as they left home in. That was probably the opposite of a disguise. Perhaps when they arrived at the hotel they would change. Unless Sherlock deemed in unnecessary. It would make sense, so many people in france and they were only after the one man. But then why even call it undercover? Oh, he was too tired for this. He hadn't had much sleep the last two days and he knew Sherlock hadn't either. He really did in the best of times, but it was always so much worse during a case.

"John? We're here." _Keep it together, Watson._

The hotel was one of those very expensive, luxurious ones you always wished you could afford but usually could only admire from afar. There were perks when you were in a relationship to the brother of Mycroft Holmes. Though, he didn't get to use them very often. The rooms were nice, tall and spacious. There was a living room with beautiful furniture, a small kitchen, a bedroom with a queen bed that came with an ensuite bathroom. It came with the biggest bath he'd ever seen in his life. It was a pity they were here on a case.

Sherlock was already lying on the bed, still in his shoes, coat and scarf, his hands steepled in front of his face. His eyes were fixated on some point of the ceiling.

"So, how are we doing this then?"

"What?" _Hello, Earth to Sherlock._

"I said, how are we doing this?"

"Doing what?" John sighed and allowed himself a moment.

"Catching the killer, Sherlock. That is why we're here, isn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide and then suddenly swung his ridiculously long legs over the side of the bed.

"Yes, John. Soon. Let me think."  _I must go to my mind palace._

"Fine, I'll be in the living room. Might as well use it while I have the chance."  _Not the mind palace, we'll be here all day._

Maybe there was something decent on the telly, John thought to himself as he left the room, leaving the detective to flop back onto the bed and his hands resuming their positions.

* * *

About two hours later Sherlock strode into the living room, finding John sleeping on the couch, the tv still on the cricket. He could just leave him, investigate things by himself. But the last time he'd done that, he'd ended up with a broken leg and a stern lecture from John. Such lectures were common, but there was something different about that last one. He'd better wake him.

"John."

"Incoming!" John leapt out of the couch in alarm, suddenly awake.

"We are not in the Army, John."

"What?..Sherlock? Oh. Sorry. Must have dozed off."

"Yes."

"Did you want something?"

"No. Weeeell, yes. We're going out."  _Really?_

"Out?"

"Yes, we have a killer to catch, remember?"  _Oh that sort of going out. That's good too...I guess._

"Right. Let's get on with it then."

* * *

Of course it had to be night, of course it had to be dark. Can't have these things in the daylight can we? Doesn't have the right...ambience? No. Criminals like the shadows apparently. And they loved catacombs too it seemed. Closed catacombs, catacombs where entering them after hours was sure to get one arrested. Those sort of catacombs. If Sherlock had not explained on the way, that Mycroft had texted him three bolt holes where the man could possibly be hiding, one which he had been seen entering but not leaving, John would have thought Sherlock had simply come here for the fun. Skulls, bones, skeletons, the macabre often interested Sherlock.

"Why would he be here?"

"Dark, plenty of twisting tunnels. Very easy for someone to get lost in here. Unless they already knew their way around."

"You mean he's been here before?"

"Must have, if he is here that is."  _He better be. Or I will know who to blame._

They continued the rest of their nocturne journey in silence, which made John more than a little nervous, one wrong turn and they could get lost, or find themselves facing a wall of grinning skulls. But walking in silence eventually turned out to have it's uses. Every so often they would here a noise coming from off in the distance, amplified by the echo of the tunnels. Sherlock whispered to John, that he was certain they were not alone in this labyrinth of bones.

_No shit, Sherlock, we're surrounded by the dead._

_But, let's hope we find him before he finds us, because in these bloody tunnels of...of death, I fear he may have the advantage._


	2. Chapter 2

What was the point of going undercover, if you were not in fact, undercover? They were however, Underground. In the dark, surronded by skulls and bones and dirt, with only the flickering torchlight to guide their way. No it didn't make him feel safer that Sherlock had memorised a map of the catacombs, because in the dark, it was bloody hard to see anything. So how would a map be of any use?

"This is ridiculous."

"Sssh!"

"Well it  _is._ He's going to find us you know. And then everything will go to shit. Couldn't you have least alerted the police?"

"Keep your voice down, John." Whispered the detective. "We're undercover."

"We bloody well are not."

"Not...'literally'." Sherlock waved his hands in a gesture John was unable to see in the dark. "SSSH! What was that?."

"Me. You bloody stepped on my foot."

"Oh...sorry."

* * *

"Is that him?"

"No thats a corpse, John."

"Well sooorry. We've only been down here for two hours."

"We can't be that far away from him by now, John. Be patient."  _Yes be patient, in a tomb, following a killer. In the dark. Brilliant, Sherlock._

"Is that him then?"

"No, John, don't be ridiculous that's-"

It turned out it was him. Unless the skeleton hanging on the wall of bones had suddenly come to life, which was very unlikely. God, John hoped it was unlikely. The man, clad in a red hoodie, baseball cap and questionable trousers, leapt out of the shadows, throwing himself at Sherlock. The torch flew out of the detective's hand and all three of them were plunged into the dark.  _Shit, shit, double shit._ John could hear grunts, cut off curses and choking sounds. He took out his gun, but knew it would be of little use in here, he might accidentally shoot his...his Sherlock.

"J'hn!" I'm coming mate, hang on!

"Sherlock? Where are you? Come on, give me a sign!" Something,  _oh please be a someone_ , grabbed his leg. "Sherlock?" The grip tightened. Oh good.

John reached down and grabbed something, it felt like the hoodie. Brilliant. Shoving him off his lover was not an easy task. especially when punches missed, or found the wrong target. Or Sherlock's well meaning kick upwards caught John in his stomach. But at least the killer's, Dufort, attention was now on John and not Sherlock. Good, he could use this now.

"Can't shoot a gun in the dark, Doctor Watson."

"Want a bet?" _Maybe it's unwise to shoot it, but not to hit you over the head with it._

Which was precisely what he did. Though it did take two tries and one kick in Dufort's general direction. But when he heard a grunt and a body collapsing to the ground, he knew he'd hit his mark.

"Sherlock, you alright?"

"'M fine. Is he dead?" Sherlock's voice was a hoarse whisper. Throat injury? Hopefully not.

John knelt down next to the killer and felt for his pulse. "Still alive. Chuck us your handcuffs." Something cold and metallic hit him in the nose.

"Ow! Sherlock!"

"S'rry. It's dark."

"Well find the bloody torch." Feeling around for Dufort's hands, he snapped the rings around his wrists and gently lifted him up. The man groaned but was still not quite concious.

A flicker and then a full beam of light alerted John to his friend, who was still lying on the ground. He couldn't carry two people back. No way. Sherlock was going to have to stand.

"Sherlock, you have to get up."

"No. I think I'll lay here for awhile."

"Sherlock." Doctor John surfaced. "I can't carry you and Dufort. He's handcuffed and possibly concussed, you need to get up, you're the only one who knows how to get out of this labyrinth."

Sherlock thought on this longer than nessercery and managed to stumble to his feet, swaying slightly. This was a bit not good. John was going to be angry, wasn't he? Brushing of John's concerned hands, Sherlock pointed the torch forward and slowly led the way.

They only got lost twice.

* * *

Upon reaching the outside world, they left everything to Mycroft, the Yard and the Paris police. They would sort everything like jurisdiction, breaking and entering and diplomatic arse kissing without Sherlock and John. They decided, against advice, to walk back to their hotel. The decision was mostly Sherlock's who refused to listen to reason, claiming he had his own and they were very good ones, John so don't worry. John worried anyway. Every time he tried to get a look at Sherlock's injuries under a street lamp, his hands were pulled away. He could easily take Sherlock by a shoulder, and force him to allow John to help. But he wouldn't want to further injure him. No...unfortunatly his idiot of a boyfriend was right.

Plus all their medical supplies were in the hotel room anyway.

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John walked into the back of him. "Are you alright?!"

"I'm fine, John." Croaked the detective. "Look." He was pointed at the well lit area in front of them.

The Eiffel Tower was shining red in the moonlight. Beautiful. There were people on blankets stretched out in front of it, cuddling, kissing and...other things. It was all very romantic. Sherlock's eyes was fixed on the tower. It was rather beautiful, if you liked that sort of thing. And apparently everyone around them thought it was romantic as well. Even John.

"Well you wanted to see the sights." John wasn't even going to ask how he knew that.

"Yes, Sherlock. Thank you."

"I don't really see the appeal though, for everyone to be sitting out here in fron-"

"Shut up you big lug." John pulled him into a gentle kiss. Sherlock's arms flailed about, his eyes wide.

He wasn't used to this kissing business. It required more research. Practical research. Oh and experiments too. If only he could remember where to put his hands. And if only his neck, shoulder and wrist didn't hurt. Then this would be quite an enjoyable experience. He was unable to hold back the groan of pain that escaped when John became a little more enthusiastic. 

"Oh, shit! Sorry Sherlock!" He'd gotten lost in the moment. "We better get you back to the hotel. Though you should really go to hospital." 

"No. No hospitals."  _Besides your french is very good and I can barely speak. What would be the point of it?_

"Alright. But you have to listen to everything I tell you." 

"Ok."

"I mean it this time, Sherlock." 

_I'm sure you do._

* * *

Much later, after cleaning wounds and soothing injuries. And after John was certain the bruises around Sherlock's neck were nothing to be concerned about. Well, concerned in the fact that they were not life threatening or required a trip to the emergency room. After all that, they did finally get to use that bed. For sleeping. Both had attempted to do...something, but it had amounted to fumbling in the dark, managing to at least strip down to their pants and then both slipping off to sleep, with Sherlock half on John and John half off the bed. 

They made better use of it in the morning.

And John even managed to convince Sherlock to eat a meal, in a restaurant, with candles. This time neither could claim they weren't the others date. Sherlock didn't even say it was soppy, or even mentioned that Valentines day was a highly commercialised holiday and it was yesterday. No he was very good about the whole thing.

Mostly good. 

He apologised for deducing loudly and bemoaning romantic traditions by kissing John as soon as they left the restaurant with orders to never return. John slipped his hand into Sherlock's gloved one and the detective felt a little thrill through his body. He felt warm and suddenly happy. Who needed a valentines day card when he had John? 

"Home?" _I am home, John. I'm with you._

"Oh God yes. I have relatives here. I don't want them to find out before I've left the country." Cousins thankfully. And an odd uncle. 

John chuckled. "Come on then, idiot. Let's go pack our things, we'll do the  proper tourists things tomorrow."

"I'm not an idiot."

"You really are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

Sherlock pouted. 

John chuckled.

And Sherlock smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEY BOTH WALKED OFF INTO THE SUNSET. Or something. IDK.
> 
> FIN.


End file.
